Mediterranean Tycoons

‘Why should I? You never afforded me that courtesy.’

‘Because I love you, damn it! He forced the words out between gritted teeth, and for a second her heart stopped. Then she remembered.

‘Now who is playing games?’ Lisa prompted, willing her voice to remain steady. At one time she would have given anything to hear him say he loved her. But not now; it was too late. ‘You married me for a bit of real estate, remember?’ She declared, but it was more to remind herself. She was not falling into Alex’s clutches again. Her marriage had been a rollercoaster ride to hell, and she wasn’t paying twice. ‘In fact, I seem to recall you telling me you did not believe in love. So what are you after, Alex?’

She was on the defensive. She couldn’t help it. Her awareness of Alex was such that it was agony for her to be in the same room with him, and to compensate she lashed out, ‘You already have my property.’ She waved her hand in the direction of the model.

Alex visibly flinched. ‘I deserved that,’ he said with unnatural humility. ‘But if you would only look at it!’ He forced her to turn and face the model complex. His humility hadn’t lasted long, she thought dryly.

The building was long and low, only four floors, with gardens leading down to the river and to one side more buildings forming a courtyard. ‘Lawson’s.’ She read the tiny blue lettering on the front of the model and fury enveloped her. ‘You’ve called your hotel Lawson’s?’ she cried, spinning around and glaring up defiantly at his face, only inches from her own. ‘Why did you do it, Alex? A sop to your conscience? But then we both know you haven’t got one.’

‘Even now, you really don’t see, do you?’ Alex asked flatly, slipping his arm around her shoulder and turning her back to face the table. ‘If you look closely—’ he stretched his other hand across in front of her, one finger pointing to the courtyard and the low buildings ‘—you are not going to lose Lawson’s Designer Glass. The architect has incorporated the glass house, with a viewing area for the general public, into the overall design. So you see, you have nothing to worry about. It is quite common to have a few selected attractions in the grounds of a hotel.’

Stunned, Lisa stared down again at the model, her blue eyes widening in wonder, and then she lifted her puzzled gaze to Alex. ‘But…but… Why…? I mean…’ She stammered to a halt, completely gobsmacked.

Tentatively, he slid his hand to her waist and turned her fully to face him, locking his hands loosely behind her back. Lisa was too shocked to offer any resistance. ‘I never thought I would see the day when I would bare my soul over a conference table.’ His lips twisted in a self-mocking smile. ‘But you deserve no less after the way I treated you.’

Baring his soul. A minute ago Lisa would have argued that the man did not possess a soul. She couldn’t take it in. Lawson Designer Glass was saved. Alex was confusing her yet again.

‘I know I have hurt you in the past, Lisa.’ He’d got that right. The ache in her heart was a constant companion. ‘But it was never my intention.’

Lisa swallowed nervously, unsure where Alex was leading. But deep down inside a tiny flicker of hope unfurled. ‘No?’ she queried.

‘No. Believe that if you believe anything, Lisa. From the second I set eyes on you I wanted you,’ Alex began in a deceptively quiet tone. ‘But you were right; the night I met you in Stratford I was there to see Margot. Though only to tell her it was over. And I didn’t spend the night with her. We had separate rooms.’ His voice became cynical. ‘But it did not stop Margot trying to persuade me into her bed. Which is why I never got the key back. I left in rather a hurry in the end.’

‘I see,’ Lisa said shakily.

‘I hope you do.’ Alex’s eyes bored into hers, dark and oddly pleading. ‘I could hardly wait till ten the next morning to see you. Then when we spent the day together, and I discovered you were feisty, and fun and yet innocent, I decided your credentials were perfect for a wife, and that I was going to marry you. I deliberately rushed you into it.’

That wasn’t strictly true, Lisa silently acknowledged. She had been no slouch herself. She had wanted him and found it hard when he’d insisted they wait until their wedding night.

‘I would like to say that business had nothing to do with it, but I want to be totally honest with you. I don’t know.’ His hands tightened behind her back, pulling her slightly nearer, as though he was frightened she would try to break away. ‘When Nigel approached me at the bar, it might have crossed my mind that I could have the woman I wanted and a lucrative business opportunity. But within a day of knowing you all I was interested in was you.’

She didn’t know what to believe. He need not have admitted he hadn’t been sure of his own motive that first night. Warily, Lisa tilted her head back and looked up at him. What she saw in the depths of his deep brown eyes made her heart skip a beat as warmth flooded though her veins, and she was tempted to give him the benefit of the doubt. His arms tightened a fraction more and her legs brushed against his, making her vitally aware of the electric tension between them. In a last-ditch attempt to control her crumbling defences, she murmured, ‘But I did overhear you talking to Nigel.’

‘Ah, yes, Nigel. When I came back from New York, and you knew I had bought the shares, everything I told you was the truth, Lisa. I did it to protect you.’

She had believed him at the time, but after Jed she’d been willing to discredit his every move. Now, after seeing his plan for the complex, she had to believe him again. ‘I believe you,’ she conceded, but she was still not sure where he was leading.

‘Thank you for that.’ He eased her into the hard heat of his body and pressed his mouth to her brow.

Lisa raised her hands and palmed them on his broad chest, whether in resistance or simply because she ached to touch him she did not know. She was powerless to utter a word. She felt as though she was on the brink of some great discovery.

‘It is more than I deserve.’ Alex’s eyes caught and held hers. ‘Because what I have to say now shows me in a very unfavourable light.’ His sensual mouth turned down in a grimace. Lisa held her breath, the hope that was slowly growing in her frozen.

Alex kept an arm around her waist, and as though in a gesture of comfort he lifted his other hand and caressed the soft curve of her cheek, his dark eyes kindling as he registered the slight dilation of her pupils. ‘I had it all, and in my conceit, my arrogance, I did not know it. Of all the lovers I have ever known…’

Lisa stiffened imperceptibly. The last thing she needed was a rundown on his women. ‘No, there were not that many, Lisa.’ He read her mind with ease. ‘But you were the most passionate, the most generous, giving… And I took everything you had to give and took it for granted.’ His eyes clouded with what looked suspiciously like remorse. ‘I could make excuses. I did not believe in love because of my parents. My mother loved my father, still does, but would not forgive what she saw as a betrayal.’

Lisa suddenly saw the parallel in their relationship. Alex had caught her in the foyer of a hotel and had thrown her out of their home. He was more like his mother than she had thought, and she listened with mounting hope as he continued.

‘But that is the easy way out. In reality I had reached the age of thirty-five without experiencing the emotion, and was cynically convinced it did not exist. Until I met you. But even then I refused to recognise it.’

Her blue eyes widened to their fullest extent on his serious face. Was he implying again that he loved her?

‘Even after the fiascos with Margot and Nigel were sorted out and we went to Kos…’ Their eyes met and clung for a long moment with memories shared. ‘Even then I could not admit to myself that I loved you. In my conceit I didn’t think it mattered, because I knew you loved me. On our honeymoon, you delighted me with your unabashed enthusiasm, both physically and verbally. But after I returned from New York it slowly dawned on me you no longer said the words. You became a silent lover. I told myself it did not matter, but it did,’ he admitted with a self-mocking smile.

Alex was right; she had withdrawn slightly, out of insecurity, but she hadn’t thought he’d noticed. The hope expanded to every part of her as he went on.

‘I found myself growing more and more suspicious. I was jealous of the time you spent E-mailing your friends. Then, on the night I got back from Singapore, I went into your study to get the fax from the pottery chap.’ Pain clouded his expression, and involuntarily Lisa’s hands stroked comfortingly up over his chest.

He gave her a crooked smile. ‘I found a printout of an E-mail with the address of a hotel in London and it was like a knife in my gut.’ He paused. ‘I have absolutely no excuse for following you, or grabbing your friend Jed. It was sheer rage, primitive male jealousy; the man was touching my woman.’ He said it with such possessive arrogance Lisa had to mask a smile. It was so Alex… He could not remain humble if he tried.

‘In that moment I knew the sheer agony of love and betrayal.’

‘Not betrayal,’ Lisa interjected swiftly.

‘You were close to Jed mentally. Is a betrayal in the mind any less harmful than a physical betrayal, Lisa?’ he asked, and she did not know how to answer him. His eyes never left her face as he bent his head, and brushed her lips gently with his own. ‘Forget I said that. Just know I love you, Lisa. I think I always have, but I was too arrogant to admit it,’ he murmured against her mouth.

‘But you still insisted it was over…’

‘Hush, Lisa.’ Alex lifted a finger and placed it over her lips, and she marvelled at the slight tremor in his touch. ‘I will regret to my dying day the way I behaved. You are my wife, and I will love and treasure you in this world and the next, if you will let me.’ His dark eyes gleamed with the fierce burning light of love. There was no mistaking it, and Lisa’s lips parted in a brilliant smile of pure joy, her shimmering blue eyes reflecting the love she found in his. ‘Will you?’ He repeated huskily.

Lisa had a million questions to ask, but they could wait. Swaying towards him, she moved her hands up to his wide shoulders, and then trailed her fingers through his hair, bringing his head down to hers. ‘Yes, I will. In fact, I will insist,’ she teased, and placed her lips on his. Delicately probing with her tongue, she initiated a kiss that was tender and passionate, loving and giving, a kiss like no other they had shared. Finally, so he would be in no doubt, she looked up at him through her thick lashes and murmured, ‘I believe there is a bedroom next door. It would be a shame to waste it. After all, you have paid for it, partner.’

Alex’s husky laugh contained an element of relief, and he bent and curved an arm beneath her knees and lifted her high against his chest. ‘Your wish is my command,’ he groaned, as her hands slid around the nape of his neck and she nuzzled his neck.

They fell on the bed, clothes discarded haphazardly, and finally, when they were both naked, Alex reared up over her, his eyes dark and feverish as they roamed over her slim curves and the luscious fullness of her breasts. ‘I do love you, Lisa.’ She felt her breasts grow heavy beneath his gaze.

‘Then love me,’ she whispered, and he did…

Mediterranean Tycoons Untamed & Unleashed

Picture of Innocence

Untamed Italian, Blackmailed Innocent

The Italian’s Blackmailed Mistress

Jacqueline Baird

Picture of Innocence

CHAPTER ONE

LORENZO ZANELLI, owner of the centuries-old Zanelli Merchant Bank, originally bankers to Italian principalities and now a global concern, exited the elevator at his office suite on the top floor of the magnificent old building in the heart of Verona, a frown marring his broad brow.

His business lunch with Manuel Cervantes, the head of an Argentinean conglomerate whose family had been valued clients for years, had gone well, but Lorenzo was not a happy man … His secretary had called to warn him he was going to be late for his next appointment as his lunch had severely overrun—despite the fact that they had completed their business quite quickly.

As soon as work was out of the way Manuel had turned to a more personal topic: the necessity of giving up his career as a mountaineer and keen photographer to take over the running of the company after the death of his father five years ago and his subsequent marriage and two children. Then finally he had shown Lorenzo some shots he had belatedly got around to printing from his last trip to the Alps.

They were pictures taken at the main base camp on Manuel’s final expedition to Mont Blanc, and included by sheer chance a few shots of Lorenzo’s brother, Antonio, and Damien Steadman his friend, wearing bright red jackets and even brighter grins, just arriving as Manuel’s team were about to start their ascent.

The next morning Manuel’s team had been on the last stage of the climb to the summit when he had received news that his father had suffered a heart attack. He’d been airlifted off the mountain by helicopter, and his last shot was a view of the mountain as he was flown down to base camp for the dash back to Argentina to be at his father’s bedside. He had heard much later of Antonio’s tragic death, and had thought Lorenzo would like to have what were probably the last pictures of his brother. Lorenzo was grateful, but it brought back memories he had spent years trying to forget.

Lorenzo had been looking through the photos as he’d walked back to his offices, taking in the implications of the detail in the landscape shot Manuel had pointed out to him, when he’d literally bumped into an old friend, Olivia Paglia, which had delayed him even further.

His frown deepened as he saw the fair head of a woman seated in the reception area, obviously waiting for him. He had almost forgotten about Miss Steadman, and now was not the best time to deal with her …

‘Lucy Steadman?’ he queried, casting a dark glance her way. He remembered seeing her years ago when, on a business trip to London, he had called briefly at Antonio’s apartment to check in on his little brother. She had been a plump, plain-faced little schoolgirl in a baggy sweater, with long fair pigtails, who had been visiting her brother and was leaving as Lorenzo arrived. Her brother Damien had met Antonio at university in London, and they’d become firm friends and flatmates. A friendship that had ended tragically, and one he certainly did not need reminding of for a second time today.

‘Sorry for the delay, but it was unavoidable.’ She rose to her feet and he noted she had scarcely changed at all. Small—she barely reached his shoulder—with her hair scraped back in a knot on top of her head, her face free of make-up. The baggy sweater had been replaced with an equally voluminous black suit, with a long skirt that did her no favours at all. Slender ankles, he noted, and tiny feet, but the flat shoes she wore had definitely seen better days. She obviously cared little for her appearance—not a trait he admired in a woman.

Lucy Steadman looked up and up at the man standing in front of her. Antonio had told her once his brother was a lot older than him, and a staid, boring banker who did not know how to enjoy life, amongst other similarly harsh comments, and now she could see what he had meant …

Tall—well over six feet—he was dressed conservatively in a dark suit, a white shirt and plain dark tie. And expensively, she guessed. His broad shoulders were outlined superbly by the well-cut jacket, and she hastily lifted her gaze from where it had drifted down to his hips and thighs to fix on his face. The man was hard and unsmiling, but Antonio had missed one attribute that was immediately obvious to Lucy, even with her limited experience of men.

Lorenzo Zanelli was a truly arresting male, with a subtle aura of animal magnetism about him that any women past puberty could not fail to recognise. Given the severity of his clothes, surprisingly his thick black hair was longer than the current fashion and brushed the white collar of his shirt. The planes of his face were firmly etched, his heavy lidded eyes were brown, almost black, and deep-set beneath thick arched brows his nose large and definitely Roman and his mouth wide and tightly controlled.

‘You must be Lorenzo Zanelli,’ she said, and held out her hand.

‘Correct, Miss Steadman,’ he responded, and took her hand.

His clasp was firm and brief, but the sudden ripple of sensation that shot up the length of her arm affected Lucy well after he had dropped her hand, and she simply stared at him. She had the oddest notion he was familiar to her, yet she had no memory of ever having met him before, and he in no way resembled his brother.

He wasn’t handsome in the conventional sense, but his face was fascinating. There was strength in his bold features—a powerful character that was undeniable—and the subtle hint of sensuality about his mouth intrigued her. Her gaze lingered on the perfectly chiselled lips, the bottom fuller than the top, and she found herself imagining what his kiss would taste like … sensuous and beguiling. A tiny shudder vibrated through her body and, shocked by her physical response to an uncharacteristic flight of fantasy, she swiftly raised her eyes and ignored her strange reaction to a man she had every reason to dislike.

Lucy excused her totally unprecedented lapse with the wry thought that Lorenzo Zanelli was the sort of man to make anyone look twice. In fact she would like to paint a portrait of him, she mused, slipping back in to her professional comfort zone.

‘Miss Steadman, I know why you are here.’

His deep, slightly accented voice cut into her reverie, and she blinked just in time to see his dark eyes flick disdainfully over her. She felt the colour rise in her cheeks with embarrassment at having been caught staring. ‘You do?’ she murmured inanely. Of course he did—she had written to him.

Her original reason for this trip to Italy was to personally deliver a portrait she had painted of an Italian countess’s recently departed husband. The lady had commissioned the painting after walking into Lucy’s art and craft gallery with the friend she’d been visiting in England. Lucy had received via the post dozens of photographs of the man, and she had been thrilled that her work was finally going to get some recognition beyond the local scene.

Not that she was seeking fame—realistically, in today’s world where a pickled sheep or an unmade-bed made millions—she knew she was never going to get it, but it was nice to feel appreciated for what she did excel at. She had a natural gift for catching the likeness and character of any subject, be it a stuffed dog—her first ever commission!—or a person. Her paintings in oils—full-figure or portrait, large canvas or miniature—were good, even if she did say so herself.

She had confirmed her trip to Verona with the Countess when she had finally managed to get an appointment with Signor Zanelli. After a phone call that had got her nowhere she had written to the Zanelli Bank, asking for its support in staving off the forced buy-out of Steadman Industrial Plastics by Richard Johnson, one of the largest shareholders in her family’s firm. She had received a short letter back from some manager, stating that the bank did not discuss its policy on individual investments.

She had very reluctantly, as a last resort, written another letter and marked it ‘Personal and Private', addressing it to Lorenzo Zanelli himself. From all she had heard about the man she had formed the opinion he was a typical super-rich alpha male, totally insensitive to other people and with the arrogant conviction that he was always right. He never changed his mind, not even when a formal inquest said otherwise, and she disliked him intensely.

Lorenzo Zanelli had been horrible to Damien after the inquest into the mountaineering accident that had caused Antonio’s death, accosting him outside the courthouse and telling him coldly that while legally he might have been found innocent of any fault as far as he was concerned Damien was as guilty as hell, and might as well have cut Antonio’s throat instead of the rope. Her brother, devastated by the loss of his friend, had felt badly enough as it was. Lorenzo Zanelli had made him feel a hundred times worse and he had never really recovered.

As far as Lucy was aware there had been no contact between the two families since, and it had come as a shock to her to discover after Damien’s death the Zanelli bank was a third silent partner in her family firm. Lorenzo Zanelli was the last man she wanted to ask for a favour but she had no choice. Trying to be positive, she’d told herself maybe she was wrong about Lorenzo—maybe it had been his grief at losing his brother that had made him say horrible things to Damien, and with the passage of time he would have a much more balanced view.

So Lucy had swallowed her pride and written to him, blatantly mentioning her family’s friendship with his brother Antonio. She had informed him she was visiting Verona for a day or two, and had almost begged for a few minutes of the man’s time before finally being granted an appointment today.

The continuation of Steadman Industrial Plastics as a family firm was dependent on Lucy persuading Zanelli to agree with her point of view. Not that she had any family left, but to the residents of the small town of Dessington in Norfolk, where she’d been born and had grown up, Steadman’s was the main employer, and even though she had not lived there since graduating from college she did still visit occasionally, and she did have a social conscience—which she knew Richard Johnson did not.

She was pinning her hopes on Signor Zanelli. But now, after what she had heard about him and being faced with the man in person, she was having serious doubts.

She had arrived in Verona at ten this morning—well, not exactly in Verona. The budget airline she had travelled with had landed at an a airport almost two hours away. She’d just had time to book into her hotel and get here on time, and her flight back was tomorrow evening at eight. On her arrival at his office the great man’s secretary had taken her name, made a phone call, and then told her in perfect English that Signor Zanelli was going to be delayed. She had asked her if she would like to reschedule the appointment and, flicking through a diary, had suggested three days’ time.

Lucy had countered with a request for the next morning, sacrificing her plan to explore the town and the famed arena. Her appointment with the Contessa was in the afternoon. The secretary had told her it was not possible, but she could wait if she liked. She had had no choice but to agree.

‘Miss Steadman?’

He repeated her name and, startled out of her wandering thoughts, she glanced up at him, green eyes clashing with brown. The arch look he gave her was all male arrogance.

‘You’re a determined little thing, I’ll give you that,’ he drawled and, turning to his secretary, said something in Italian that sounded like ‘ten minutes—then call’ before throwing over his shoulder, ‘Come, Miss Steadman. This will not take much time.’

Lucy bit back the response that sprang to mind. It had already taken a heck of a lot of her time. Pausing for a moment, she tried to smooth the creased black linen skirt she wore—a pointless exercise—and watched the broad back of the man as he disappeared into his inner sanctum, the door swinging closed behind him. He might be strikingly attractive, but he was certainly no gentleman, and her nerves tightened a notch.

‘You’d better go in now,’ the secretary said. ‘Signor Zanelli does not like to be kept waiting.’

Given how long she had been waiting—her appointment had been for two and it was now after three—Zanelli had some nerve, she thought, her temper rising. Dismissing the odd effect he had on her own nerve, she squared her shoulders and, taking a few deep breaths, walked across the room and into the man’s office.